The Great Expectations of Gatsby
by faith heart
Summary: 14 years after Gatsby's death, Nick takes in one of Gatsby's sisters and raises her as his own. She grows up to be a wonderful, charming woman who meets Pammy Buchanan, who like her mother is a belle, and is entangled in the hierarchy of old and new rich people. But Della just wants to get justice for her brother and revenge on those who ruined him.
1. Preview

**DELLA GATZ**

When I was a little girl, my understanding of vengeance was as simple as the Sunday school proverbs it hid behind. Neat little morality proverbs, like "do unto others" and "two wrongs don't make a right".

They're all wrong about that. Two wrongs can never make a right, never. For those truly wronged, only the real satisfaction can only discovered in one of two places: forgiveness... or _**vindication**_.

"Dahlia, I love you," Sloane softly utters.

He loved me.

My heart swelled, he did love me. All that agony was finally eased.

_**No.**_

He loved "_Dahlia_." I only did my part in angering Pamela: taking away what she wanted most. Him.

The rushing feelings slowly churn into aches, my body shutting down. I got what I wanted, but I feel empty. **He** was innocent. And I wasn't.

Now I understand why Mr. Carraway wanted to leave New York all those years ago. He tried to warn me, but it was too late. I was just as foolish as my brother after all.

I swallow my fears before my lips could open. It must be done.

"Thank you, Sloane. You're so sweet." A smile lights up that sweet face. It only broke my heart more, as well as that underlying thrill of smashing that glow. Something is wrong with me. I've truly become the monsters that I hated so much.

"But...there is too much at stake, Sloane," I continue, my voice now steely. "You are an easy fellow, that's why I approached you."

_You're not an easy fellow. You're a kind, broken, loving man._

"Plus, now that Pammy lost, it's not fun anymore. I don't need you."

_That's not true. I love you. But I have to let you go before I destroy you too._

"You don't really know me, Sloane," I smile grimly. "I may have acted this way just to get to you."

His mouth flapped open like a gasping fish, words struggling to come out. I broke him. He's no longer mine, Pamela's, or himself.

There only bits and pieces left of a man.

"I have to go now, good day, Mr. Baker."

I toss my hair before flouncing off. I might as well burn this image of an aloof girl, so he could forget me quickly. But behind that receding figure was a girl in pain. Tears cascade down my cheeks, cold as the air around it. I am a monster. But I will not involve him in any more of this feud. He's a bystander. There's no need for him to get his hands dirty with me or Pamela.

This is my own battle. No one can interfere. And I'm too far off to go back to where I once was.

After all, they say vengeance is a dish best served cold. My brother died an innocent man, betrayed by the woman he loved, idolized. He was my everything. And now that he's dead, I'm going to take away everything from those who wronged him. Starting with that woman...

When everything you love has been stolen from you, sometimes, all you have left is revenge.

And that's just what I'll do.


	2. Preview 2

**NICK CARRAWAY**

In order to regain control, we sometimes are forced relinquish it. By doing so, it makes us believe we are protecting our loved ones, the ones we cannot live without. But the most dangerous truth of all is that control is merely an illusion.

"Uncle Nick, how did you feel, when everyone turned against my brother?"

Della had turned up home finally, her dress and hair matted with water. The poor little one heaved unsteady gasps while tears fell down her cheeks.

I stopped my work and went over to her, guiding the child to a chair. Why she was acting like this, I didn't know. But the question that loomed over us brought back painful memories.

How did I feel?

_Pain._

_Anger._

_Despair._

Those negative feelings that washed over me when I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. They all abandoned ship when the poor man was murdered.

_Murdered! _With slander, cheating on a married woman who was "happy" with her husband! _ Ha!_

It was the Buchanans' fault. They set up Gatsby and the Wilsons, running off after they got rid of their nuisances.

The man who loved, was unloved in the end. At least, that's what he had thought.

Della has an expectant look, patiently eager to hear my answer. But unfortunately, it wasn't so simple.

"Let me show you, Della."

We walked for a while, silently, along the road. I stop when the view of that dock appeared. It reminded me of the first night I lived here, where he outstretched his arm to that light.

"You know, I buried him, at his property, but...maybe it would've been more fitting if it were here instead." I chuckle mirthlessly at this.

"Why?"

I gesture to the Buchanan property. Perhaps they finally left again, like those years ago. That green light, however, was still remaining. Like always.

"Your brother had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it." I could see him right here, his figure stretching out his arm. "I'd see him reaching, reaching to that light almost every night. And when he got her...he didn't need it. But he probably should have treasured more of other things."

I tried to reach out to the Gatsby figure, only to have him disappear once I touched him. He was gone.

Has been. And will always be, no matter how I try to fantasize it.

"...You loved him," Della observes quietly.

I'm sure she knew all along. After all, there were teasing remarks about me being tied to a Commie, being his secret lover, or plotted against him. But they couldn't get into my heart after I dashed away from the carnage of New York.

A guilty heart is silent, it's pulse muffled by the secrets it keeps. While some believe confession can release a tortured soul, others view as a sign of weakness. Because ultimately whatever one says, however you feel about what you've done, it's irrelevant for the hand of death is equally unforgiving. No one can escape from it.

Yet, I still came back. Because I saw that same determination in Della. Those eyes, which had drawn me to him.

I must admit, I felt as though my life had ended when Gatsby died. Everything he had slipped through his fingers, and then it was gone. His love, reputation, and eventually his own life.

After I left the West Egg, it was hard to move on from the glamour that destroyed the great Gatsby himself. I didn't want to see anyone. I couldn't trust anyone after witnessing the poor, lovelorn man being destroyed. He was so bright, yet sad and devoted. No one was around to treasure or appreciate him.

The Midwest was a good change, but the people just didn't seem much different. There was pride in blood or newly gained possessions. I feared that I may never see the world in a positive light.

"He was worth the whole damn bunch of those rich bastards put together. But no one bothered to look closer to see it." I stroke her head gently. I wanted to protect her, as repentance of what I didn't do for Gatsby.

"He didn't know...?"

"What's the point?" I laughed sadly. "No one would accept it, I'm sure even he wouldn't have. Plus, we cannot ask the dead, no matter how much we'd want to. It is a secret I will take to my grave."

This child wouldn't understand how those budding feelings were like. I disliked but admired him. I loved him more than a brother in our short time together.

"I think he would've...but he just wouldn't see it right away; how much value you have over Daisy." Even though she was trying to comfort me, it still made my heart warm a bit. That smile of hers really resembled that smirk he always pulled off. "You are worth more than any mansion, jewel, or any materialistic thing there is out there."

There was a comfortable silence between us.

"I am sorry…that I dragged you into this mess," she choked. "I should have just let it die, because you're hurting as well." Those sad eyes bore into my soul, making my heart break once more.

She didn't do anything wrong, I knew. Della was young, just like he was, and wanted to do something with their life. It was just the way they were.

"You didn't let me down, Della. And you certainly didn't let down your brother either."

She sniffs, clutching onto my jacket while we gaze out to the sunset, imagining the green light flickering across from the dock.


	3. Prologue

**NICK CARRAWAY**

It was only 9 years after Jay Gatsby was removed from the world; with his name besmirched and his mansion now left hollow but full of ghosts of the past.

I had returned, despite my abhorrence of the rich lifestyle of New York, because some part of me aches for that small home I lived in. Or the house that was filled with people wanting to party their hearts out. Either way despite my previous resolve to move away, I came back. As for it being a wise decision, I'm still not sure but I will see when I return.

That place.

It still remained the same, unlike the rest of the neighborhood. Perhaps people were too disgusted or haunted by the history of its last owner. The factual imitation of Hotel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool and more than forty acres of lawn and garden.

It was still beautiful in my eyes, a place that held desperate dreams. Not even the Roaring Twenties, the crippling depression, or the war could take away its grandness away.

How would he react if he knew that his beloved flower was struggling with the times?

But then again, it would be useless, since all he ever saw was her in those rose-colored glasses. Nothing would ever talk him out of putting her on a pedestal.

With my meager earnings that I had left, I purchased the mansion for my own, which I'm sure that the old sport wouldn't have minded. It felt right.

Once I moved in, it only took a while for me to set down my new address to my family. They were quite alarmed when they heard the news. I had just come back after a while, and now I'm leaving once more. Of course they would feel confused and conflicted about this.

I look out to the pool, a chill running down my back. I could see a slumping figure of Gatsby there, floating in a pool of blood while his body ran cold in the water. Shaking my head, my vision cleared to see nothing but calm water.

A sigh escapes my mouth. Lately I've been suffering lots of visions of Gatsby around me. Everywhere I went, I saw him. I could hear him. Even in sleep I couldn't escape him. His looming shadow would always follow me, wherever I went.

It's something I should accept. After all, I was a bystander. My lack of actions led to his undoing as well.

I'd be fine bearing this sin for the rest of my life.

"Mr. Caraway?"

My caretaker Irene stood at the doors, waiting for me to come back inside. She was the only one I brought with me from home since I was unstable after I left New York. Bless that woman's soul.

"There's a visitor for you." My eyebrows raised. Daisy and Tom had left long ago to God-knows-where after the fiasco with the Wilsons. Plus, there was nothing to call them back, anyways.

Jordan? But she must be married by now and living somewhere else, partying to her heart's content somehow.

So who would come to visit me?

Full of unease and curiosity, I bob my head. "Let them in."

In the parlor, there sat Mr. Henry C. Gatz. The poor man seemed to be withering away with age, his hat drooping. He wasn't faring so well ever since the depression hit, affecting the family and the war had taken some of his children away.

"Mr. Gatz, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

He wheezes, violently coughing before he could even respond to me. "Mr. Caraway, you've done so much for my family: being Jimmy's friend and arranging his funeral, sending flowers to us when my poor boys were sent off and killed, and providing us money to aid our home. I can't thank you enough."

Guilt ate my heart. I didn't do it out of the kindness of my heart. The intentions were all wrong, but I couldn't let him know that. He was an honest, good man.

"Well, my family was able to build up our living once more, thanks to you, Mr. Caraway," he rambles. "But my real purpose was to bother you with our eldest."

There were more children aside from the ones that died?

"My daughter, Della," he continues. "She's a bright, young one, just like Jimmy was. She was always a wise one, always listened but I knew by the look of her face what she was meant for greatness. I can't take care of her because of my health. I apologize for inconveniencing you once more but if you could…take her in and help her out in getting an education…my family will help you in anything you need in the future."

I hesitate. Mr. Gatz was not an ambitious man, which I knew. But this was a big favor, plus I would have to handle raising a child. And what if…I behave badly, like Daisy and Tom? I was once in that crowd…I could behave like them too.

Thoughts of my time with Gatsby brought me clearance. Despite my shortcomings and failure, he was still able to find someone to be comfortable with and trust. If a man like that, trusted me…then perhaps I wouldn't be so bad?

"Of course." I smile, relaxing the old, ailing man. "Don't worry, Mr. Gatz. I'll be sure to care for your daughter. We're friends after all."

Hopefully I can do some good after all.


	4. Chapter 2

_5 Years Later…_

**DELLA GATZ**

"What's that you have there, Della?"

Interrupted from my reading, I peer at the voice calling out to me. My benefactor, Mr. Carraway kindly gazes at me while he works on projects for his family business. He seemed exhausted, wanting to take a break and found me as the perfect distraction from the world.

I smile at him, showing the cover of my book. "'The Great Expectations,' by Charles Dickens. It's quite a lovely book, despite all the others saying how ghastly and droll it can be."

He chuckles at my speech, making me aware that my way of speaking was too old-fashioned, too formal to fit with this modern society. Embarrassed, I hide my nose behind my book, engrossed with the next few conversations between Magwitch and Pip.

"Look at me, Della." With no excuse to refuse, I did as requested. There was no trace of anger in those eyes. Only sadness and dare I say...affection dwelled in those brown orbs.

He sighs before coming over to my side, wrinkles deepening on his alabaster forehead. Mr. Carraway seems more exhausted more of the late. Work had been hard since his father passed away and the responsibility was placed on him, since he was the heir. If only I had the skills or knowledge to ease his worries. He did so much for me, even though he had to face such hard times alone, especially since the depression was hurting a lot of businesses.

How was he able to even help me out with my education and care?

"Della, it's quite alright. There's no need to worry about your speech," he comforts me. "You have a charm unlike anyone else, there'll be people who appreciate you for you."

I sighed. Of course, in this kind of moment he would behave like a sage. It's been a while since we had a talk like this. After being ushered into Mr. Carraway's home, I was treated as his own sister. He was a good man, giving me home and new clothes.

Although I miss home and the farm, living here wasn't so bad. I was raised by him and his caretaker, so I wasn't really alone here. But educating myself was a bit difficult for a girl who only knew how to cook and do chores. Here, I was limited to only cleaning my room since there was Irene to pick up after me.

"I'm not used to it, I'm sorry, Mr. Carraway."

"It's alright, don't worry. You're doing very well."

A praise. It brought back memories of my father (who is now gone after succumbing to his weakening health) and James. A warm hand would always land atop my head, blocking the light from my vision. But I was never afraid.

Because I knew that it was something soothing. That I did well. A smile crept on my lips as I recalled that day when I figured out how to read the stars. James was shocked and asked me to teach him for sailing. He was the only one who didn't mock my ways. He always listened to me.

And now he's gone.

I keep on smiling, not wanting to worry Mr. Carraway. Perhaps I can do even better and make my brother and father proud.

* * *

"Commie monsters."

A woman glares at me while I walk down the streets with Mr. Carraway. We were merely going down to a school in order for me to enroll until we bumped into this hostility.

He merely shielded me while returning the glare at the woman, sending her off with a huff.

"Don't worry about such things, but I'm sorry you had to hear that."

It wasn't too new. I have heard it before whenever I walked with him. Apparently, they thought Mr. Carraway was in kahoots with Wolfshiem and other corrupt people, who caused the depression and were spies in the war. He told me that these people were once connected to my brother, but he refused to tell me what James did.

It got me curious. What did my brother do to get such scrutiny? Father always praised about his self-made worth and success. But why was he hated so?

I shook my head and continued to follow Mr. Carraway down the block, wanting to hurry up.

"Keep up, Della!"

It's hard to believe he was a veteran but when he strides like that, I curse the fact that his stamina is better than my own.

I'll ask him about my brother later.

* * *

But I didn't get to have the chance to ask him. After we enrolled me for school, he was dragged back to work. And it's been a while since we last saw each other.

Sighing, I sat myself before the organ. The massive thing intimidated me ever since I was young, but now that I grew, it just seemed like an old, rusted instrument.

A few keys were pressed down, emitting discordant sounds that echoed the halls. Cringing, I decided to play some chords instead, enjoying the softer melody coming out.

Feeling more confidence, I decided to go faster and play a folk tune, reminiscent of the ones from home. I let myself drown in the music until I heard an imposing clap behind me.

Whirling around, before me stood a woman. She was a delicate beauty: bobbed blonde hair, blue bell eyes, and dressed in white. She gave off an ethereal appearance.

"Oh, just how lovely. Absolutely marvelous!" The woman clapped excitably like a child, giddy.

"Thank you...ma'am." I awkwardly cough. "But...w-who are you?"

"Silly me! Why, I'm Daisy Buchanan!"

I recalled the name from Mr. Carraway's stories. She was his cousin, who married richly and had been out of contact these last fourteen years in Paris.

"And you, darling. You have something to go by, yes?"

I couldn't keep her waiting, after all, she was expecting an answer any moment. All the etiquette lessons were now going down the drain as I struggled to answer the murderess before me.

"Dahlia! You're playing?"

The two of us see Mr. Carraway walk into the room, with a slightly panicked look on his face. He rushed in, panting before he greets his cousin. She twirls her fur in her arms, as if trying to entice us into her arms.

"Oh, Nicky dear!" she trills with excitement. "It's been so long!"

"Daisy…what are you doing here?!" Rage and confusion were filled in that voice. Veins seemed to pop on his forehead, his face reddening. I've never seen that expression in that man before. He didn't tell me all the details of the past, but from what I knew, she was someone who well deserved such anger.

The woman lets an exhaustive huff, her body slack with indifference. She seemed relaxed and carefree. "Oh, Paris was lovely, quite lovely. You should've seen the cafes there, and the ladies there are just quaint!"

"_Daisy_."

"We've come back because we felt like we missed the New York scenery here. Paris was lovely, no doubt, but it was too…French for my taste." Her nose crinkled at the last sentence.

If I recall, France wasn't doing so well after the war, being under siege and taken over by the Axis Powers. How Mrs. Buchanan and her family were able to survive, I'm not too sure. But, from what I heard of her from Mr. Carraway's stories, probably throwing away money to just survive.

Mr. Carraway seemed to have the same thought as well. We just decided to keep our mouths shut.

He clears his throat, giving her a suspicious glance. "Well, it doesn't really explain how you knew to find us here, cousin."

"Well!" she echoes his voice. The woman circles the hallway, her heels clacking on the tile floor. "Just as we arrived in town, we heard that Nicky here was back and with a companion! I wanted to check if it was dear Jordan, since well, the last time I was here, you were on good terms!"

Mr. Carraway's stiffening stance and frown suggested otherwise. I wonder what did happen between the two. He didn't mention anything about a beau. Probably well suited, since I didn't want to get involved in something so crude.

But still, he looked really uncomfortable. What happened to them fourteen years ago?

"Well, as you can see, it's not her," he manages to choke out, his owl-eyed glasses shaking. "This is my ward, Dahlia Scott. She's a close friend of mine from back in Minnesota."

His eyes seemed to convey a secret message. _Don't say anything about your real identity._ I didn't quite understand the point of it, but I did so anyway. Mr. Carraway didn't do things with no reason, after all.

The white woman stops her circling, halting her flower-like body in front of me. That intense stare almost made my body shake with fear, sweat starting to roll from my arms. How long must I be under this heron's scrutiny?

Those blue flames seem to want to burn me, get the truth out of my mouth. It seemed to want to test me: whether I was a fraud or a friend. The words couldn't stumble out of my mouth, no matter how much I tried.

Then I remembered something my brother James once told me. It was when he was practicing sailing, and he was already well-versed in the technicalities and such. He allowed me to sit with him, observing the peaceful scenery before us: blue beyond the horizon.

His eyes were already far off as he sailed, somewhat saddened. James always had that face, like something was taken from him. But regardless, he turned to me and told me about his dreams. How he wanted so much more from this simple life; how even though he loved his family, he didn't like the way we carried on this mundane way.

"I don't want to be James Gatz, half-pint. I need to be greater than that," he sorrowfully spat. "I'll do anything to get there, even if I get scared. Because the world is cruel, I need to show that I'm not bothered by it and push through. Smile and carry on, like nothing can penetrate my mind."

Those haunting words were the last words he uttered to me personally. We never saw each other again after that.

Is this what he felt when he met people like Mrs. Buchanan? How did he manage? My poor brother.

But I can try, what my brother did since he was strong till the end.

I take a ragged deep breath before a congenial smile lifts my face. "So nice to meet you, Mrs. Buchanan. I apologize for not recognizing you right away. And the rumors did little to describe your beauty: you're like a calla lily rather than a daisy."

The suspicion washed away once she saw the transformation in my attitude, taken aback. The mouse turned out to be lion cub. Mrs. Buchanan shakes away her stupor and reciprocates my sunny attitude. "What a delightful little darling! Isn't she just the sweetest! She's like a rose, an absolute rose, don't you agree, Nicky?"

"Yes, indeed." He seemed more relaxed after she grows chattier, talking more about the most materialistic conquest she encountered.

"That's right, Dahlia dear!" She turns her attention back to me, somewhat frightening me as her face was up close. Now that we were much closer, I could smell gardenias with a hint of something foul. It wasn't strong, since the perfume overpowered it, but you could still detect it.

"I'd like for you to meet my family one day, I have a daughter your age, Pamela. She's a sweetheart and I'm sure you'll get along with each other."

Someone who looks so young has a grown-up daughter? That's interesting.

"We'll be available next week, I do hope you'll let her come Nicky! I have to be off, Pammy is expecting me for her party! Tata darlings!"

Just as she came, she was gone like the breeze.

And then it was quiet once more. Mr. Carraway rushes to my side, inspecting me for anything. I wasn't hurt though. "Are you alright? I'm sorry I came a little late."

"It's alright, sir." I offered him a relieved smile, my muscles still sore from the dazzling visage I showed to Mrs. Buchanan. But I didn't need to overdo it with him. I trusted him.

"But why did you lie about my name, sir?"

The man rests at a chair, wiping his glasses clean. "If she knew who you were, I'd doubt she would have even invited us to join her family. So, I lied."

_Why?_

He clamps his hand protectively over mine, his eyes begging. "I know it's wrong, but I put that name down for you at school. It's too dangerous if anyone knew your true name. Promise me, you have to keep your name to yourself. No one can know."

"Will you ever tell me why, sir?"

I threaded my fingers with his, trying to calm him. He usually had some panic attacks, even though he had improved with Irene's help. His breathing was somewhat shallow but steadied as I guided him.

It was only for a minute, but he managed to relax once more, sighing in relief. Mr. Carraway lifts his face at me, giving me a fatherly stare. It was a warm, protective glance.

"If I tell you…I wonder if you'll still remain the Della that your father and brother protected so much?"

I glare at him. I'm no longer a child anymore.

"I'll handle the consequences. Just tell me."

His face crumbles, letting out another heavy puff of air. His other hand runs through his hair, mussing up that gray and brown hair of his. Mr. Carraway was a little stressed until he gave up and looked deep into me, like that advertisement of Doctor Eckleberg.

"In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since…"


	5. Chapter 3

**DELLA GATZ**

It didn't seem make any sense to me. How? **_How? _** My father was right. James was killed by a mad man.

No—a mad woman.

A woman, who I just met, already gained my ire and hatred. I could never look at her the same. The scent truly did expose her true nature: a monster hiding under that floral beauty. My hands clenched into fists. Red only filled my vision. It was ghastly...disgusting...but somewhat thrilling.

But I shook my head. It wasn't right. But so were the ones who wronged my brother.

It's been fourteen years, and the people still look down on Jay Gatsby for being something he was not: a murderer and a Communist. He had his faults, but no one could even look at their own. How foolish.

"Della?" Mr. Carraway's voice cut me from my thoughts. My eyes flew to his face, which was warped with pain and concern. "You alright?"

Could I even be? He was right, but I wanted to hear it. I'm his sister. Father didn't even tell us the rest of the details of his death, and I understand why now. All I knew, was that I was numb and cold all over.

"My father…never once complained about my brother," I start out. "Not even when he left or got involved in that billionaire scandal."

I wring my skirt, probably ruining the dress with more wrinkles but I didn't care. "He believed in the good. Always spoke proudly of him, even when the neighbors would tease us."

Those times when my younger siblings would be shoved over, called names, there was a reason for it all. Why our crops would be stolen and burnt to the ground. Why the military sneered and abused my brothers. There was a reason.

"I couldn't do anything for him. I'm sorry, Della." Mr. Carraway bows his head down to me in shame. "I wanted to make up for what I couldn't do for him, by helping you and your family. But I think in the end, it was selfishness and shame. I am not an honorable man."

I shake my head. No, he did the best he could. This man helped my family, giving us provisions and money, even when he himself had so little to keep going. He may have been from that crowd, but he was brighter than the rest. And I trusted the man my brother trusted.

"You did everything you could," I softly responded. "And you did your best, even if that meant you suffered. You're a good person, Mr. Carraway."

He still didn't seem assuaged by this, greatly disturbed as I calmly responded. The poor man didn't ever seem to catch a break with himself. He was plagued with PTSD, always still in shock from what happened those years ago and the sights he had seen in the war. Mr. Carraway had lost so much, yet he still held on to what he had left, struggling to survive.

And I admired that of him, I wanted to free him from all that guilt, if I could.

"Mr. Carraway—is there a way, that I could bring up the case again?"

His eyes grew alarmed. "What?"

"The case with the Wilsons. How come they didn't investigate it further?"

Understanding seemed to seep in. The man's face hardened. "Because anyone will focus on the bad parts of humans. They don't bother to see how even the noble rich had their own faults." Mr. Carraway leans closer to me. "But I didn't tell you this just to stir the same trouble again. I only told you to only explain the parts that you didn't know about your brother."

I was discouraged. He could be living a different life if it weren't for the Buchanan's and society. "Alright, Mr. Carraway," I reassure him. "I understand, I'm not going to do anything about it. I'll hide my identity."

Right, I should let it die. What good would it do, stirring up trouble, and after all these years?

* * *

**NICK CARRAWAY**

Della did heed my words carefully, going to school as the country orphan Dahlia. She would go off to school for a couple of hours and then come straight home, work on her homework, practice the organ, and sleep.

Even though she seemed like the model student, I could tell there was something amiss with the child. Perhaps…it was wrong, to tell her about Gatsby.

I still was haunted by the events, even if the bite wore off. I swore I still saw him stalking around the marble floor, giving me that snarky smile and calling me, "Old Sport." Maybe because I decided to live here, though I still don't understand why I chose to live in this big mansion rather than my cottage. It still puzzles me to this day.

Feeling uneasy, I wipe my glasses, a memento from Owl Eyes himself before he passed away. The man was the only man I still kept in contact when I left that long ago, sharing a love for books and reminiscing about Gatsby.

It felt strange…to find one person among those people who could be honest. Honest people were hard to come by.

But, God gave me Della. She was truly like a gift that Gatsby sent for me. She was my comfort, the light of innocence that reigned the darkness of this world.

And I would do everything to make sure she would live a better, fulfilling life than her brother led.

The phone rang next to me, interrupting my train of thought. How strange of it to finally make such a commotion. After all, there was no one to call or anyone to call me.

The last person I expected, answered, "Mr. Carraway."

"Yes?" Dread filled my heart as I heard the next words uttered. "I understand. I'll be there."

I put down the hone back in its place, reeling in the shock. What am I going to do?


End file.
